"Very," Maria said. "The two men said they were going to the hospital and left in a taxi. I am following them now."
"What did the Spanish do?" Rodgers asked.
"They stayed at the field," she said. "I think they believed that the two men were deacons."
"Were there any police officers at the airport?" Rodgers asked.
"Not that I saw," she replied.
Rodgers brought up his computer file on the Maun airfield. He looked at the map of the surrounding area. The nearest police station was back in the city itself. That meant it would be at least a half hour before authorities could get to the airfield. Anyone who had been involved in this by accident or design would have plenty of time to get away. And several routes to do it.
"What road are you on?" Rodgers asked.
Rodgers heard Maria ask the driver. "He says we're on the Nata Road," she told him.
"The police will be coming along the Central Highway," he said. "Our deacons obviously know that."
"I'm sure they do," she said. "On the other hand, they may not be headed toward Maun."
"True," Rodgers said. He should have thought of that. He glanced at the computer clock. "Your associates from Washington should be reaching Maun in about three hours. Can you keep the taxicab?"
"I've hired a driver for the day," she said. "He's a good man."
"All right," Rodgers said. "I'll make sure the others hook up with you along the way. Try to check in every half hour. And Maria?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful," Rodgers said. "And thank you."
Maria thanked Rodgers for giving her this opportunity. Then she hung up. The general did not bother to replace the receiver. He hit Paul Hood's extension. He felt as if Maria had lit the afterburners. He collected his thoughts as Bugs Benet put the call through.
An American clergyman had been killed. Edgar Kline and the president would have to be informed. So would Aideen Marley and David Battat. Then Op-Center would have to do two things more. They would have to find out who wanted this situation to spin out of control.
And then prevent that from happening.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Upon getting into the taxi, Leon Seronga told the driver to head out along the Nata Road. Seronga told him they would be taking the highway toward the town of Orapa. The driver pulled away from the curb. As he drove, he used his cell phone to call his dispatcher in Maun.
Seronga was oblivious to the driver's conversation. The airconditioning grumbled loudly beneath the dashboard. The muffler hacked under the car. Seronga heard none of that either. His senses had shut down to everything but lingering shock over the assassination. It held him like nothing he had ever experienced. He had seen men killed before, but he had never been caught by surprise like this. And he had never been faced with a greater crisis.
Someone obviously wanted to frame Dhamballa, possibly draw him out to defend himself, Seronga thought. Until this moment, he had not realized how truly vulnerable Dhamballa was. Not necessarily to physical attack but to being undermined. His ministry could end before it had truly begun.
In time, support for the Vodun leader would have grown exponentially. That was when Dhamballa intended to take a very strong public stand on the question of outsiders influencing or controlling Botswanan religion, culture, and industry. But that would not happen for many months. At the moment, Dhamballa was not yet well enough known to become a martyr for the Botswana cause. If he were connected to the attacks against the Church and blamed for the death of the bishop, their cause would be irredeemably lost.
Protecting Dhamballa over the next few htiurs and days was only part of the problem. There was also the matter of finding out who was actually responsible for the killing. In Seronga's mind, anyone from government moles to the Spanish soldiers to the Vatican itself would have had cause to kill the bishop. But whoever was behind it, the result would be the same. National opinion would come down heavily on the side of aggressive action. To show that they were still in control of the nation, the government would be forced to redouble their efforts to find Father Bradbury and crush the Vodunists. The Brush Vipers would have to try to prevent that. They would have to stop the government, find the real perpetrators, and protect Dhamballa.
There was also a separate issue: what to do about Father Bradbury. Releasing the priest would invite prosecution as well as the inevitable return of the missionaries. Their work would be undone and resistance to it strengthened. The priest might just have to disappear the way the two deacon missionaries had.
Dhamballa had always wanted his ministry to be a contest of native esteem and ideas. Not bloodshed. Seronga had hoped that would be possible. His heart told him that peace and tribal allegiances were incompatible, whether they were local tribes or international ones. Still, he had hoped that Dhamballa could unite people in a Vodun Botswana. The nation would be joined out of pride, not economic necessity or the fear of military reprisals.
The old taxi pulled onto the empty, sun-baked highway. As he sped up, the driver regarded the men in the rearview mirror. "May I ask you something, Eminences?" the driver asked.
When Seronga did not answer, Pavant gently nudged him in the side. Seronga looked at his surly companion. Pavant motioned forward with his eyes. Seronga noticed the driver's questioning gaze in the rearview mirror. The man must have asked him something.
"I'm sorry, I did not hear you," Seronga said. "Would you mind saying it again?"
"I said that I would like to ask you something, Eminence!" the driver said loudly.
"Of course," Seronga replied.
"Do you need medical care?" the driver asked.
"Excuse me?"
"A doctor," the driver said. "I only ask because I noticed that there is blood on your sleeve."
"Oh," Seronga said. "Thank you, no."
"If you are hurt, I have a first aid kit in the trunk," the driver went on.
"This isn't my blood," Seronga told him. "A passenger was shot by a guard. I tried to help him."
"A passenger?" the driver said. "Was it serious?"
"He died," Seronga said.
"Ah," the driver said. "I wondered why people ran out. As you can imagine, I could not hear very much inside this car."
"I do not have to imagine," Seronga replied.
"Did you know the victim?" the driver asked.
"I did not," Seronga answered truthfully.
"What a sad world we live in," the driver said. He shook his head and concentrated on his driving.
"How would you make it better?" Seronga asked.
"I do not know," the driver admitted. "Maybe everyone should have children. Then we would want to stop shooting each other. Or maybe we should spend time making children. That would keep us too busy to shoot." He glanced in the mirror. "I am sorry, Eminence. That is something you are not permitted to do. But you are not the one who needs to learn peace."
If he only knew, Seronga thought. The driver returned to driving, and Seronga went back to thinking.
He had been talking to Dhamballa a great deal over the past few weeks, learning about the Vodun faith. It just now struck the Brush Viper that they had experienced the Vodun ideal of veve. A perfect, symmetrical pattern. Death in, death out. The blood of two deacons had allowed Seronga and Pavant to get into the situation. And the blood of the American bishop had given the Brush Vipers an excuse to get away from the airport.
To get away and do what? Seronga asked himself.
That was the real question. The attempt to kidnap the Amerlean clergyman had been a disaster. Neither Seronga nor Dhamballa nor any of their advisers had anticipated this outcome. A kidnapper did not expect an assassin to hit the same target at the same time.